


the night is yours alone

by halfabagoffritos



Series: Ladies of POI - Dani Silva (C) [1]
Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-15
Updated: 2015-04-15
Packaged: 2018-03-23 00:18:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 514
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3748396
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/halfabagoffritos/pseuds/halfabagoffritos
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There are many things Dani’s pretty sure she’ll never enjoy again, in the wake of Weiss’s attack.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the night is yours alone

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt: insomnia

There are many things Dani’s pretty sure she’ll never enjoy again, in the wake of Weiss’s attack.

No more baths. It’s hard enough to even look at her tub long enough to shower – which she can only stand for ten minutes, tops – without flashing back to that house. Those containers of lye. The stench of…something she doesn’t want to think about more than necessary, regardless of what Dr. Campbell says about opening up and letting go.

And when she does force herself to bathe every morning – never night, not anymore – she triple-checks the lock. Twists it and turns it and jiggles the doorknob until she’s sure no one’s going to open it without creating a lot of noise. And for good measure, she’s taken to keeping a folding chair in the bathroom to wedge under the knob. It buys her those ten whole minutes of peace.

She goes out of her way to avoid parks now, as well. And alleys aren’t very high on her favorite list now, either. Too cramped, too dark, too many places to hide. It’s probably a good thing she’s on administrative leave. It’d be hard to bust gang activity if she’s dancing around their favorite meet-up spots.

Dr. Campbell calls it anxiety. Post-traumatic stress disorder. Digs into her past, with the gang, with IA. Smiles, says all the right words about how it gets better, that this isn’t going to rule the rest of her life, just like the running didn’t. It’d be so easy to open up just enough, to talk about that night in the abandoned house and the next in her apartment. About how she’s conquering the fear, one minute at a time. Just enough to get reinstated. If Riley managed that much, it couldn’t be too hard.

But the fear won’t let her.

And as she lays awake in bed, flat on her back, for the fifth or sixth night in a row, with all the lights on and blanketing her, she’s pretty sure she’s never going to sleep right again. She rolls onto her side and stares at the bottle of pills decorating her nightstand. Fifteen prescribed to her, and fifteen still remain untaken. Her fingers itch to wave the white flag, to snap off the lid and succumb to slumber once more.

The dreams lie in wait for her to do exactly that. They curl up next to her, slither inside and claw at every corner of her mind. They take shape, grow a beard, don glasses, point a gun at her head and all she can do is close her eyes. And reopen them to the glow of five lamps, arranged around her apartment to cast out every possible shadow. To give him no place to lurk.

Her phone beeps, a reminder of each hour she stays awake. A rough calculation determines, without actually looking, that it’s 3 in the morning. Another two hours and she can get up, throw on a fresh set of clothes, go for a jog. Shower. Start the cycle anew.

In sixteen, she’ll try this again.


End file.
